"Lettice," exclaimed the other, "could I think this of thee? I had trusted thee better. What have I done that thou should'st treat me thus? As for thee--" he said, turning to Manners. "Tut, man, doff thy cap," interrupted the latter. "This is Mistress Dorothy Vernon." "Thou hast met here often enough before," continued the unbelieving Will, "but I'll warrant me this shall be the last time. Mistress Dorothy, indeed! A likely story that; but I know that hood too well to be deceived. You are Sir Edward Stanley, or Master Manners, perchance, I suppose. Roger Morton shall know of this." "Lettice is in the hall," said Dorothy. "I know thou art to be trusted, Will, for Lettice ofttimes speaks of thee. This is Master Manners. Hush! not a word, tell it not to anyone." It was the voice of Dorothy, beyond dispute, and not the voice of Lettice, and the astonished youth dropped down upon his knees and sued forgiveness. "And you knew me not?" asked Manners, as he clapped his companion familiarly upon the back. "I deceived thee, then? Have not the others found out my disguise? Methinks they have looked at me askance of late." The young woodsman rubbed his eyes to convince himself that it was a reality, and that it was not a vivid dream. "Nay," he replied, at length; "they said thou wert seeking to rob me of my Lettice, for we knew thee not." "I am a craftsman still," returned Manners, "mind you tell them not. There, I shall rejoin thee soon." Lettice's lover took the hint and departed, not at all loth to get out of the way, and feeling mightily relieved that things happened to be as they were, and were not any worse. "Doll," said her lover, as the retreating sound died away in the distance, "we have another friend in him. Do thou tell this to Lettice, happen it will enliven her. I will not press thee for thy answer now; we shall love each other to the end, I know. Remember this, Doll, thy happiness as well as mine is at stake. Sir George cannot take back his words even though he repent them. He cannot relent, for he has promised thee, and he is the very soul of honour, but, an we please ourselves, he cannot help it, and all will come right. Nay, interrupt me not, I have weighed my words, there will never be such another chance for us to flee. There, now, thou knowest all I can tell thee, thou shalt decide anon." Dorothy was silent, but if looks had speech, she had pleaded eloquently. Her resolution swayed to and fro in the terrible struggle of her affection: her soul was riven. She was too happy in the company of her lover to say him nay, and yet, at the same time, the bond of love which drew her to her father was far too strong to be suddenly snapped. "I must go," she said, at last, "but whether it be aye or whether it be nay, in life and in death I am thine alone. Kiss me, John, and let me go." Manners was deeply agitated. He took her face in both his hands, and stooping down, he kissed her again and again.